


And We Will Meet

by graceandfire



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandfire/pseuds/graceandfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future Fic:  John Connor meets a young Kyle Reese</p><p>*********************</p><p>John’s not sure why his gaze keeps drifting to the kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Will Meet

John’s not sure why his gaze keeps drifting to the kid. He’s got a hell of a lot of items left to check off on his ‘Save the World’ list and being distracted by a small, still figure isn’t one of them.  He should be up and about mixing with the men, continuing to build the trust he’s so carefully been crafting, convincing the other prisoners he can get them out of the hell on earth also known as Century Work Camp. He’s already got a good core team in place. Filo and Barten are dangerous, dependable and on his side with a dozen good men besides. He’s known and being carefully weighed by others. But he doesn’t have Bates yet; the man’s just not the trusting sort. Beating him into submission would be easy—well, doable, but not easy since the guy was Marine Force Recon—but beating him won’t get John what he needs. No, this isn’t about defeating the other man, it’s about giving him hope. Giving them _all_ hope that the Machines aren’t omnipotent. Skynet might have started the War with a nuclear bang but it’s still a War the humans can— _will_ win.

So John’s got a dozen things he should be doing right now.  But something about the too thin kid huddled in a torn up shirt has caught his attention. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t look as far gone as most of the kids John’s seen since the Missiles hit. This kid looks…taken care of, and yeah, that’s a really odd thing to say about someone imprisoned in a concentration camp. But he doesn’t look as feral as some of the other young ones taken by the Machines. Sure he’s too thin and dirty but so is everyone else with the grime from the smoke pouring out of the incinerators day and night, seared into their skins as surely as the barcodes burned into their forearms. And when they’d passed each other earlier, the fleeting eye contact catching John’s attention, the kid’s eyes hadn’t been empty or filled with nothing but animal cunning. No this kid has—or had—a family or _someone_ watching out for him until he was captured. John would bet a basket of the home made bombs he’s building out of the Machines’ leavings.

Giving in to curiosity, he nods over at Jacobs. “Hey…” he calls softly. It’s a habit now. Speak softly, walk silently, kill swiftly. “You seen that kid before?”

Jacobs looks up and shrugs, grimacing. John knows it’s because there are too many kids in Century and most of them don’t last long, even with the adults looking out for them. The conditions are just too dangerous. Like a lot of things post-Judgment day it’ll drive you crazy if you dwell on it so you just don’t.

“Seen him a couple times. He was on my work detail last week.” Jacob’s eyes narrow in recall. “Don’t think he’s been here long. Why?”

John shrugs a response and tries to dismiss the kid from thought, forcing himself to think about how to deal with Bates, but mentally swears when his eyes drift right back to the too-thin figure.

“Hell,” he sighs and gives up. Sometime you just have to go with your gut. He grabs a tin of water that’s been boiled on their makeshift heating element to try and burn off impurities—the Machines, eternally arrogant in their upper hand, seem surprisingly unconcerned that the prisoners scavenge parts and fuel—and, offering in hand, slowly makes his way over.

The kid tenses as John nears, head whipping up to stare warily at him. The eyes, green as jade, are assessing instead of afraid. Not belligerent but not timid either. The kid may look like a scrawny, scrap of a thing but his eyes keep him from being fragile.

“Here,” John offers the tin cup and it’s cautiously taken. He watches the kid cup it with both hands in appreciation like it’s a mug of hot chocolate instead of chemically tinged water before taking a long pull. Lowering the cup the kid continues to stare at John, never having taken his eyes off of the older man. “Thanks.”

John feels his mouth quirk. “Welcome.”

He hesitates and then sits down across from the kid, giving him enough distance to feel comfortable. John hasn’t had a lot of dealings with children. Even when he’d been an actual child he’d felt ancient compared to those protected innocents who were supposed to be his ‘peers’. Mentally he shrugs because, hell, it’s not like there are any normal kids left anyways. “When did you get taken?”

The kid’s eyes lower for a moment, hiding beneath too long sandy bangs before rising to meet his gaze in steady contemplation. “Two weeks ago.” Pain flashes across the landscape of the kid’s grimy features before it’s blinked away.

“Who’d you lose?” It’s inevitable that the kid’s lost people. But there’s someone recent.

“My big brother.” The pain’s back and the kid’s face scrunches up this time, eyes shining with unshed tears.  He actually looks his age until he fights it down again and his expression hardens—kid’s tough and John’s impressed.

“He’s not lost though.” Green eyes stare almost defiantly now, daring John to contradict him. “He’s still out there. The Machines didn’t get him.”

John stares back, not wanting to give false hope but not wanting to take away what’s probably the kid’s only comfort. “Is he tough?” he finally asks.

The kid smiles proudly, teeth gleaming surprisingly white in the shadows. “He’s the toughest.”

John smiles back, surprised that it feels natural because he hasn’t smiled in what feels like a long damn time. “Well then I bet you’re right. I bet your brother’s still out there.” Hell, maybe he really is.

This nets him a pleased nod of agreement and the kid falls silent, focusing on his water. John takes the moment to look across the twisted, nightmarish landscape of Century and wonder at the resiliency of the human soul. This place is hell on earth, the result of human hubris, one microchip at a time lining the way to Armageddon. The temperature at Century is sweltering during the day and barely better at night, the heat given off by the incinerators warming the whole area even beyond the normal L.A. heat. There are bodies stacked haphazardly within viewing distance waiting to be burned. The Camp workers have no choice but to keep shifts going day and night because the Machines keep dropping off the loads of corpses at all hours and if they don’t keep up they’ll be neck deep in rotting bodies and all the pestilence that dead, rotted flesh will bring. The smell of decay is everywhere and the knowledge is held by every man, woman and child that if they falter and fall they’ll be just another corpse for those left behind to load into the incinerators.

With all the horrors of the past years and the way death rides like a shadow over their shoulders it’s amazing that anyone is still sane, let alone a child who can smile because his big brother is too tough to get taken by the Machines. John feels the moment of clarity sweep through him like a perfect cool breeze. That’s why they’re going to win. Whatever it is remaining in this kid’s soul, in every human’s soul, after all the pettiness and minutiae are burned away is what’s going to help them take back the world.

“I’ve heard the others talking ‘bout you.” The kid’s tone is speculative and John refocuses on the fine boned young face.

He raises an eyebrow and offers a half-smile. “And what do they say?”

“That you can help us fight back. That we can bust out of here and hurt the Machines.” The kid’s expression is too adult right now. The face of a soldier.

“And what do you say?” John asks, genuinely curious about what this man-child thinks.

“I want to help. I can help.” The kid is solemn and serious and he should be playing baseball on an open field not offering to fight in a war. But hell, John’s been a soldier ordained since before he left the womb. He didn’t create this situation even if he was created to try to stop it and he knows he’ll be taking all the help he can get. Including the adolescent variety. So he nods.

“Welcome to the army then, soldier.” He reaches out a hand to offer in a shake and after staring at John for a suspicious moment to make sure he’s serious, the kid reaches out and shakes it with all the gravity of ceremony.

“So what’s your name, soldier?”

“Kyle. Kyle Reese.”

The only one who might notice the shiver that suddenly racks John’s body is now looking over with suddenly fierce eyes at a drop ship flying in to lower its dead cargo onto the ground. By the time Kyle looks back John’s face is carefully blank because there’s too much to think to feel to regret to be grateful for. This is…this is…

“Can we really beat the Machines?” This is a kid…trusting enough to let show for a precious moment the fact that he’s young and scared and wanting reassurance in his cracked voice and hopeful eyes.

And this he can offer and even have it be the truth.

“We _will_ beat the Machines,” John promises Kyle Reese, child/father/friend/martyr--so many, too many things. “I’m going to teach you how. You’re going to help me.”

The answering smile hurts more than a bullet.


End file.
